Top Stories
New stories you'll love, handpicked for you by our team and updated daily.
The Lives of Others. Top Story - September 2025.
Like millions of other people, I commute daily; an hour on public transport each way to the nearest large city. I've taken the same bus journey so many times I recognize the drivers and their schedules and I can sleep most of it without missing my stop. I can see the fucking road with my eyes closed and I swear I have developed a sixth sense for when and where a traffic jam will occur, what buses will be late, and when I'll struggle to get a seat (always when the University is in session, always - I swear some of the students think their book bags have a ticket too the way they seat hog)...
By S. A. Crawfordabout a year ago in Humans
My first and last letter to my mom. Top Story - September 2025.
Dear Mother, I don’t feel this form of address fits, since over the past months you have been everything to me and those around me except kind. Still, I will give you respect in this way, if no other remains—at least in the form of this letter. Though I believe, as with most of my gestures, that this one too will go unanswered by you. It is sad that, as a mother, you never managed to show me this fundamental principle: respect. Because respect is owed from child to parent and parent to child alike. Respect is a basic human norm. Many believe it must be earned, but that is not true. It is never right to approach someone with belittlement or contempt simply because of their appearance or background—for you never know what the other person is going through. But one thing is certain: they feel. And that is something that, whether you understood it or not, you disregarded for years—disregarded the feelings of four people in your family. I hate that whenever I voiced a different opinion in a calm tone, you always raised your voice, cut me off, and spoke over me. I hate that whatever I thought, if it didn’t match your view, I was the fool. I hate that I could never have an opinion around you, and therefore never be myself. I hate that I always had to identify with you, as though I were your little clone. I am not, and I never will be. But you never understood that. I had to do everything exactly the way you demanded, and for the smallest, most insignificant mistakes, you punished me physically. It was easy for you while I was a small, defenseless child. Easy to hit a ten-year-old when her father wasn’t home all day. But would you have dared to do the same if he had been there? Perhaps once or twice a month—but not every single day, as you did. You call it child-rearing, and to an extent, I agree. But hitting is not an effective method of raising a child, no matter how “necessary” you claim it to be. You didn’t raise me—you abused me. Day after day, when no one was looking. For a long time, I hated myself, hated what I had become. Now I hate the person who made me this way. I’ve learned to put myself first. I no longer try to make anyone else proud. I’m tired… I wasted years trying, but you were never proud of me. And if you were, you never let me know. Everything I do now, and everything I will do in the future, I do for myself. But I will never forget that version of me who desperately, cowardly curled up in the corner of a room, eyes shut, helplessly waiting for your hand to strike her back or face. That version of me no longer exists. And that seems to anger you, because now, instead of actions, you use words to wound me as deeply as possible. “Filthy bastard” and “pathetic wretch” are just a tiny fraction of the disgusting, inhuman curses you have thrown at me. After all that, how can you expect me to smile as I accept the gifts you buy for special occasions? As if nothing ever happened? I am not that kind of person. If someone so clearly does not want me around, I leave—forever. I will not put on a mask, pretending we are on good terms. Because we are not. Saying otherwise would be a lie. And I will not tell a lie this big—to myself, to others, or to you. And neither should you… Words cannot describe the hell you—not my father, as you were always saying, but you—created out of what was once called a home. You always insisted on your own truth. You never accepted anything else, unless everyone did exactly as you commanded. But life cannot be lived that way. Even a marriage is built on compromises. You never once agreed to discuss anything with the rest of us. You always felt superior. You wanted to control every movement of every family member, never thinking that what we needed was a wife and mother at home—not a boss. But your goal was always power. You wanted everyone to submit to you, to control us emotionally, financially, mentally—any way you could. Or, in your own words, you considered yourself a “black sheep” who had to lead the other “white sheep.” But you are no more special than anyone else you look down on as “ordinary, brainwashed” people. That arrogance and egocentrism is all that shines through you. And to call another person crazy, insane, or stupid simply because their view of the world differs from yours—even slightly—that is nothing but childish behavior. Everyone makes mistakes. But not you. At least that’s how you always presented yourself in every disagreement. You could say endless bad things about everyone else, but never about yourself. You “always did everything perfectly; you never made mistakes.” And if the conversation ever turned to you, you always deflected it—no matter how, even if it meant dragging someone else through the mud. Only your words mattered. You “never made mistakes.” And you never apologized. You could not allow a stain on your pride, or a flaw in your perfection. I hate how easily you throw around hurtful words, as if you had no idea how heavy they are. I would not wish the treatment you gave us on anyone. You broke and crippled this family. Not my father. You. You were the one. And for that I cannot forgive you. You blackmailed my siblings and my father with their own emotions. You completely twisted my sister out of herself. Look at what you raised her into, Mother… Exactly what you once held up to me as a warning example. A spoiled, whining, demanding, arrogant girl, with zero respect even for her own parents and siblings. A little queen, isn’t she? And if that weren’t enough, you even gave her a new personality: your own. Because what I once refused to accept, you found a perfect candidate for. And now you have your little replica, who repeats only what you whisper in her ear, sees the world only as you describe it, and acts as your informant—passing on word-for-word every conversation and event in your absence, whether it concerns you or not. I doubt you’ve made it this far in my letter. I’ve never had much of your attention, and I don’t expect it now either. But if I am wrong, and you are reading these last lines… why should I go on? There is no point. Your ego is too big for you to reflect on anything written above. You are too arrogant to look within yourself and weigh things honestly. You are too proud to admit and change. Because no matter how much you preached the opposite and tried to project it onto everyone else for years, the biggest problem here has always been you.
By Anna about a year ago in Confessions
Mental Health and Gun Control. Top Story - September 2025.
School buses line up on the curb. Little feet race off the bus and into the adjacent building. Excitement of new clothes, faces, and supplies buzzes the air. A school bell silences the youthful voices as the adult voices rise, delivering instructions for the young scholars to follow. The morning progresses seamlessly, unaware of unexpectant invasion on campus. A spray of popping echoes through the academic hallways, shattering the studious atmosphere within every room of the educational building. Scrapping of floors spills out in between each terrifying burst. Aggressive pounding replaces the popping briefly before the unwanted cascade of bullets striking wooden doors return. Blood curling scream deafen the popping for a few seconds before the restoration of silence.
By Iris Harrisabout a year ago in The Swamp
It All Comes Down to This.... Top Story - September 2025.
The 2025 MLB season has been filled with outstanding catches and moments. Now, the following teams are fighting for Wild Card spots and as the regular season winds down, every game matters. For context, I'll be focusing only on the American League in this story. I'll check in the following week to see how the records of the teams I'm about to talk about have changed. Also, next week, I'll be going over the Wild Card hunt in the National League.
By Mark Wesley Pritchard about a year ago in Unbalanced
The Day After (And Why It's OK To Hurt Like Hell). Top Story - September 2025.
I never thought I’d write something like this. Not because I thought we’d last forever (though I hoped we would) but because I honestly thought I’d be alright. I cry at Pixar films, so I know I'd be sad. But, you know, I'd be upset, but fine. That if it ever ended, I’d handle it with grace. I'd be “a man about it.” Be upset, fold up the memories, put them in a box, and move on slowly.
By Ben Etchells-Rimmerabout a year ago in Humans
My 5 Favourite Albums Ever . Top Story - September 2025.
For those of you who are Facebook friends, you may see certain songs featured on my story from time to time. I don’t usually share my music taste unless you’re a close mate and so, consider yourself a close mate. I’m actually writing the majority of this on my phone and I’m hoping to keep it short.
By Annie Kapurabout a year ago in Beat
Korean Drama Review: Law and the City (2025). Top Story - September 2025.
Introduction: "Law and the City" is a 2025 Korean legal drama, set in Seoul’s bustling Seocho District, that blends courtroom intensity with emotional depth. The professional lives of 5 associate lawyers spill over into their personal lives, especially when a new team member stirs up unresolved memories from the past.
By Treathyl Fox (aka cmoneyspinner)about a year ago in Geeks
Reflections of a Walk. Top Story - September 2025.
When I was 15 years old, my mom decided to take me for a walk to have a deep talk with me. We went for a ride, down the country road we lived on and to the little store that also had a makeshift post office. Essentially, this was all that made up that little town called 'Culleoka,' (which means Sweet Water in Choctaw) where we lived for about a year in total. It was just before Fall, and she ended up stopping at this little cemetery called Friendship Baptist Church Cemetery.
By Sai Marie Johnsonabout a year ago in Confessions
Little Siren. Top Story - September 2025. Content Warning.
So, here we are again. My travels have taken me far and wide since last we met, Friend. I've got plenty more stories of the dark and disturbing to tell, and I do so enjoy having an audience to listen to them. If you believe your constitution is strong enough, then let us begin.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Horror
